“It sure would. I’m partial to venison stew.”
Clinton stepped out on the front porch, turned, and ambled over toward the barn. He stepped inside and found Al crouched beside a newborn calf. “Howdy, Al,” he said. “That your new calf?”
Al turned and said, “Sure is. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Al was wearing the same worn clothes, several sizes too large, and the oversized black hat. Clinton noticed the freckles on Al’s face, and as he knelt to look at the calf, he saw that Al’s eyes were a strange greenish color.
“This is a fine calf,” Clinton said as he reached out and stroked the silky hide of the calf. Finally, he said, “I wanted to thank you for helpin’ me get home.”
“It wasn’t nothin’.”
“Well, them two Skull lunkheads caught me off-guard. Next time it’ll turn out different.”
Al smiled, and Clinton noticed that he had regular features and smoother skin than most young men. “Well, I’m goin’ huntin’,” he said.
“I got a fancy for venison. I reckon your folks could use some, too.”
“Grandma loves venison. So does Grandpa.”
“Well, why don’t you come along?”
“Really? You mean it?”
“Sure.” Clinton nodded. “Tell you what. You go get your gun, and I’ll saddle your horse. Which one is he?”
“That little sorrel out in the corral. The saddle’s out on the fence.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Clinton went out to the corral, and the sorrel came to him when he called. “You’re a tame little lady,” he said. He put the saddle on, and by the time he had it cinched and ready, Al had come out of the house. “Can you shoot that rifle?”
“ ’Course I can!” Al said, somewhat offended. “What do you think?”
“Well, I’ll be glad to give you some pointers. Let’s get on our way.”
The sun had fallen deep across the afternoon sky as they rode along side by side. Al told Clay about seeing many tracks at a little creek not far from the Bartley place. When they arrived there, they tied their horses to some low-lying bushes and walked in silence toward the creek. They crouched down, half hidden by a copse of blackjack and post oak saplings, and waited to see if any deer would come to drink. They had a clear view of the creek, and Al said, “Them tracks are right fresh, Clinton. I’ve seen deer here twice about this time in the afternoon.”
“You all loaded and ready to shoot?”
“Of course I am!”
Clinton checked his own rifle, held it across his lap, and then continued to speak. “Like I been sayin’, Al, I owe you a lot for takin’ me home in the wagon, and I figured on a way to pay you back.”
“How’s that?” Al said.
He turned and stared at Clinton amongst the shadows of the big brimmed hat. Al’s eyes were almond-shaped, and Clinton could not decide if they were blue or green or both.
“Well, you ain’t very big, Al, but I reckon you’ll get bigger. How old are you? About fourteen?”
Al suddenly smiled. “At least.”
“Well, you’re just about the age when things get sort of complicated.”
“Complicated? Complicated how?”
“Why, a fella starts gettin’ notions about that time, and them things ain’t good for a fella.”
Al was studying Clinton carefully. “What kind of notions you talkin’ about?”
Clinton was surprised. “Why, women, of course! You’re just about the right age to start gettin’ interested in girls. Now, I figure I owe you somethin’, so I’m gonna give you some advice on how to handle this problem.”
“I’d be right pleased to hear it,” Al said.
“Well, the first thing you got to understand, Al, is that you have to stay away from women who ain’t following after God. Oh, a few of them ain’t like ma and like your grandma, but most of them is tricky. Oh, they are tricky! They’re always tryin’ to get a man in trouble. Why the Bible says, ‘The lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’”
“It says that, does it?”
“Oh, sure, and a lot more. You let me have your Bible, and I’ll go through and mark all them parts about bad and sinful women. A young fellow like you needs all the help he can get, especially just comin’ into what you’re facin’.”
“So, women always try to get men in trouble,” Al said. “How do they do that?”
“They got ways, Al. Yes, they got ways!”
“What kind of ways?”
“Well, the first thing is they take lots of baths so they smell good.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Well, I reckon that ain’t too bad, but I’ve always felt like too much bathin’ was unseemly.”
“What else do they do besides take baths?”
“Why, they use perfume.”
“Don’t that make ’em smell better?”
“Oh, they don’t do it just to smell better. They do it to draw men down into their clutches, don’t ya see? And then they paint up their faces, which ain’t scriptural.”
“Does the Bible say that?”
“Well, I’m studyin’ on it right now. I ain’t found it yet, but it’s in there somewhere. It’s got to be, don’t it? But I’m tellin’ you that paintin’ their faces ain’t the worst.”
“What’s the worst, Clinton?”
“Leanin’. That’s the worst thing.”
“Leaning? What do you mean leaning?” Al asked.
Clinton reached down, picked up a straw of grass, and put the end of it between his teeth. His eyes were half closed, as if he were engaged in some sort of deep meditation. “Well, I’ll have to be downright specific here, Al. I expect you’ve noticed that men and women, they’re—well, they’re built different.”
Al stared at Clinton curiously. “Different—how?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. And you’ll sure be noticin’ it a lot more.
They’re just—different.”
“You mean men are bigger than women?”
“Well, of course they’re bigger, but it ain’t just that. Oh, confound it, Al, you just take a look at a woman and then take a look at a man. You’ll see the difference.”
“All right, I will. But what about leaning?”
“Oh, they do that. They put on perfume, and then they come around you, and then they lean on you, you know? And that can get a fella all mixed up. You got to watch that leanin’, Al. It can tempt a man something fierce.”
Al’s voice was shaded with admiration. “I just don’t understand how you managed to stay out of their clutches, Clinton. There must be a powerful heap of girls been leaning on you.”
“I’m wise to ’em, Al! They can’t fool me! No siree! And you see, the thing is . . .” He took the straw out of his mouth and waved it as if it were a wand. “You got to keep ’em in their place, don’t you see? A firm hand, that’s what it takes.”
“Well, what if they won’t mind?”
“Well, then it’s just like breaking a horse. You got to give ’em discipline.”
“I see, and have you had to discipline many, Clinton?”
Al’s voice was slow, and there was a tenor in it that caused Clinton to turn and look.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be proper of me to speak of it. Not to a young feller like you. Look, Al, you just take my word for it. Women are a snare and a trap, and a man’s got to keep himself thinkin’ about that all the time. Now, there’s a few more things I need to—”
Suddenly, Al reached out and clutched Clinton’s arm and pointed toward the creek. Clinton looked up and saw two deer step out of the underbrush. He watched carefully, then leaned over and whispered, “You take the doe, and I’ll take the buck. You shoot first.”
Al nodded, and they both slowly raised their rifles into position.
Clinton waited, and when Al’s rifle sounded, he was disconcerted when the doe leaped straight up, covering the
form of the buck. The doe was hit, but by the time she had fallen, the buck had whirled and was headed away. Clinton took a quick shot but missed.
“Confound it,” Clinton said. “Shucks!” He saw Al looking at him and said, “I got somethin’ in my eye just about the time you fired. Come on.
We got one anyway.”
“Yes, we did,” Al said.
They walked over, and Clinton began to point out Al’s errors. “You didn’t aim quite low enough. Next time lower your rifle just a bit and move that shot a bit forward.”
Al stared at Clinton and then suddenly laughed. “All right, I’ll write all that down when I get a chance. Now, let’s get this meat back home.”
Al pulled out a skinning knife from beneath the bulky coat that he wore, but Clinton shook his head. “Nah, we’ll put her on your horse and dress her out at your place.”
“You want me to walk?” Al asked, frowning.
“No, we’ll ride double.”
All the way back Al rode behind Clinton, but he glanced from time to time at the doe that was tied securely down on the sorrel. Clinton had talked continually. Listening’s what seems to be what you do when you’re around Clinton, Al thought.
Clinton said, “I’ve been thinkin’ about all this stuff I’ve been tryin’ to teach you about men and women, and I decided what I got to do.”
“What’s that, Clinton?”
“I’m gonna look for a nice young girl for you to start courtin’.”
“Why, that’s thoughtful of you, Clinton! You sure it won’t be too much trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t mind trouble. After all, we’re buddies, ain’t we?”
“We sure are.”
Al said nothing for a time, and then asked curiously, “How are you going to be sure it’s the right girl for me?”
“Well, I’ll test her out.”
“Test her! Test her how?”
“Well, the first thing, of course, I’ll test her theology.”
“Theology? You mean what she thinks about God?”
“Oh, sure. That’s real important. Got to be sure we get you a woman who ain’t got any off-breed ideas about religion.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Well, got to be sure that whoever this gal is that she understands a woman’s place.”
“A woman’s place?”
“Well, I mean so far as men are concerned. You know, Al, the Bible says that a woman’s made out of the rib. You wouldn’t expect a rib to be uppity, but they get that way sometimes. So, I’ll have to be sure that she’s read that part in the Bible that talks about how a woman’s supposed to be submissive to her husband.”
“Submissive?”
“Oh, yeah, submissive. You know what that means?”
“You mean a woman always lets a man have his way?”
“Well, that’s scriptural right there. You hang on to that idea, Al. And the next thing—” Clinton did not finish his sentence, for a sharp, dry buzzing almost beneath them startled both horses. Clinton’s gelding reared so suddenly that Al suddenly disappeared. Clinton yelled and pulled his gelding back. As he came off the horse, he pulled his pistol and shot one time. The shot blasted the six-foot rattler, his body as thick as Clint’s wrist. Both horses galloped away at the explosion of the pistol, but Clinton shoved his pistol back in his holster and knelt down beside Al, who lay crumpled up. “Hey now, you all right, Al?” Anxiety coursed through him.
He had not seen Al hit the ground, but he had known people could break their necks when they were thrown from a horse.
“Al, are you all right?” He picked the limp figure up into a sitting position and said, “Come on, now. Don’t be hurt. Did you hit your head?” He reached up, knowing he had to examine the head for bruises or cuts, and yanked off Al’s wide-brimmed black hat.
The instant the hat came off, he froze and stared at the long, blond hair that fell all the way down to Al’s shoulders. He could not speak for a moment, and he reached out with his free hand and touched the hair as if he didn’t believe it.
Al’s eyes suddenly opened, and Clinton was relieved. “Are you all right, Al? I was afraid you broke your neck.”
“No, I’m okay. Let me get up.”
“Here, I’ll help you.”
Clinton pulled the young woman to her feet, for obviously that’s what she was. As soon as she was upright, she said, “I don’t usually fall off horses, but—” She reached up to touch her hat, and a look of confusion crossed her face. She felt the hair down around her shoulders and then glanced down and saw her hat on the ground. She whirled then and saw that Clinton Hardin was staring at her in absolute astonishment. “Well, what are you staring at?” she said.
“You ain’t no boy!”
“Well, now, ain’t you clever! You found that out all by yourself.” She pulled away from his grip, reached down, and picked up the hat. She put it on her head and shoved the golden hair up under it. Her face was flushed, and she waited for Clinton to speak, but at that moment he could not think of a thing to say—a rare moment in Clinton Hardin’s life!
Finally, Clinton cleared his throat and said, “Oh, shucks! I knowed you were a girl all the time.”
“Oh, really? Why didn’t you mention it?”
Clinton was rapidly inventing a scenario he fervently wished had happened. “Well, I seen you was tryin’ to keep it a secret, so I thought it might be best not to mention it. And, anyway, you got a boy’s name.
There ain’t no girls named Al.”
“My name is Aldora—Aldora Catherine Stuart.”
“Well—I knowed you was a girl, anyway.”
“Why, you . . . you liar!”
Clinton noticed that Al’s eyes were enormous, and now that he was in on her secret, he could see the planes of her face were not those of a man. And he had never seen a boy or a man with such smooth complexion as that of Al Stuart.
Al waited for him to speak and then said, “You give me all this dumb advice about how a man ought to treat a girl, and yet you’re telling me you knew I was a girl?”
“Well, no, not exactly. I was just—”
“I’m going home.” She put two fingers in her mouth, whistled, and the sorrel came trotting back. She swung up behind the deer and turned the mare’s head toward the house.
Clinton watched her ride off and yelled, “Hey, get my horse, will you, Al?”
Al turned and yelled back, “Use your charm on her like you do with all those women who lean on you!”
Clinton stood there as shocked and spellbound as he had ever been in his life. He watched until she was a hundred yards away and then muttered, “Just like I always said, women are plumb deceitful!”
Turning toward his horse, he felt immensely sorry for himself. He yelled, “Come here, you no-account critter!” But the horse had a mind of its own and wandered farther off. Finally, after half an hour, he managed to sneak up on the horse and get into the saddle. He thought once about going to the Stuart house, but then decided that would not be the best.
“I better not bother them,” he said. “I’ll just go on home and let ’em have all the meat.”
He rode home, talking to himself all the way, and when he dismounted, unsaddled, and went into the house, he found Jerusalem sitting in the living room sewing.
“Did you get a deer?” she asked.
“Well, I got one, but I gave it to the Stuarts. It was just a doe.”
Jerusalem looked up, for something in the sound of Clinton’s voice struck her as being odd. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, shoot, Ma, I hate to tell you this, but I got bad news.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, that Al Stuart, the one that brought me home? Why, she ain’t a boy at all. She’s a girl.”
Jerusalem laughed loudly and put her sewing aside. She came to Clinton and put her hand on his shoulder. “Well, of course she’s a girl, and a very nice one, too.”
Clinton stared at her and exclaimed, “Y
ou knew she was a female?”
“Yes, I did!”
“Well—when did you find out?”
“The first time I saw her, of course.”
Clinton stared at her, and then he could not bear the thought of being wrong. So he blustered, saying, “Well, she’s mighty close to being a . . . a hussy, that’s what! Running around with a man’s name and dressin’ like a man!”
“I expect she’ll outgrow that.” Jerusalem grew curious. “What did you two talk about when you thought she was a boy?”
Clinton’s face instantly reddened. “I . . . I don’t rightly remember, Ma.”
“Clinton Hardin, you are absolutely the worst liar that I have ever met in my whole life!”
Clinton’s face flushed, and he turned and walked away, saying over his shoulder, “Well, I’m going to tell her about the way she’s acting.” He hesitated, then said firmly, “It’s unseemly, that’s what it is!”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Moriah sat perfectly still as Loves The Night took one of the long spines pulled from a prickly pear plant. She watched as the woman heated it in the small fire, then bent over and took Moriah’s earlobe between her fingers. Moriah sat still, ignoring the pain as the barb went through her flesh. Loves The Night perforated the other ear and then drew three lengths of horse hair knotted at one-inch intervals through. Moriah knew that each day they would pull one of the knots through each ear, and by the time the horse hair was through, the ears would be healed.
Loves The Night smiled then. “It will be a good, clean wound,” she said. “We will not paint you now, but sometime soon you will learn.” She explained the process carefully. “The black paint is never worn by women except in mourning, but we will find reds and yellows that will make you beautiful.” She reached out and ran her hand down Moriah’s hair, which was not braided and hung below her waist. “We will start using ochre in your hair to give it color.”
Ethan was standing to one side watching the ear piercing silently. He was fourteen months old now, and like most Comanche children, he had learned the habit of silence. Moriah could not understand how this would happen, but she knew that it was true. Ethan had cried like any white child at first, but somehow binding one onto the cradle board did something to them that she could not fathom.
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